The Night Before
by A Green Being
Summary: A stylized look at what may have happened the night before the Pilot episode. Various POVs.


**The Night Before**

Chief Aldo Tunney, chief of detectives at the eighth precinct of the New York Police Department, was worried. Endless press conferences and meetings with the commissioner… His protests were all for nothing and the day had come too soon. The chief knew he wouldn't be sleeping that night. He popped a Tums in his mouth.

He swiveled his chair around to the place Dunbar had sat just the day before. Detective James Dunbar had walked into the chief's office, following whatever subtle directions provided by his guide dog. Tunney popped another Tums. A guide dog.

But what else was he supposed to do with the famous homicide detective, the ten year veteran, the hero? He had no choice but to give in to the demands the commissioner had worked out with the kid.

They'd gone though the new rules yesterday. They'd signed waivers.

The chief had had to point Dunbar's pen in the right direction for him to sign anywhere near the line. And he thought he was going to be going out into the field? It made a cop's blood run cold just thinking about it.

A knock on his open door startled him and the chief looked up from the empty chair.

"Chief?" Lieutenant Gary Fisk stood stiffly in the doorway.

"It's official," Tunney said.

Gary looked like he was shrinking under the weight of the news.

"Here's his file." The chief passed a folder across his desk. "Good luck with this kid. He's a good detective, but headstrong. The worst kind."

Fisk narrowed his eyes, like Tunney was making bad jokes about the kid. "I'll keep an eye on him," the lieutenant promised.

Tunney emphasized his words, leaning over his desk, "_Be careful_ tomorrow."

* * *

They'd been forced to take him back. _Forced._

But he'd been given a second chance.

They were going to do everything in their power not to let him have that chance.

But he knew he could compensate for what he'd lost.

They wouldn't be able to overlook that.

But he was a good detective and always had been.

They'd feel bad because he used to be a good detective.

But he would prove he could still do his job.

They weren't going to give him that chance.

But he wasn't done fighting.

He needed help.

They didn't need to know that.

There was no way to keep it from them.

If they weren't willing to give reasonable accommodation, he wouldn't be able to do his job.

They'd say they gave him a chance.

Everyone would know he had failed.

It was up to him to make it happen.

No matter what. He'd figure it out because he was a good detective.

Tomorrow…

* * *

Lieutenant Gary Fisk called them all into his office. It was a solemn moment and the detectives seemed to grasp that, wiping smiles off their faces as they entered. They were a young group, and proud of their accomplishments. Fisk had put it off as long as possible. He cleared his throat.

None of them sat. They'd take the news standing up.

"We're getting a new addition tomorrow," he said.

"We know," Russo said. Marty Russo was a wiry, dark-haired kid Fisk had known a few years, never one to back down from a confrontation, always one to stand up for his beliefs.

"You don't know anything until I tell you," Fisk barked. "This ain't a beauty parlor." He looked the three over, almost daring them to say something. Tom Selway, looking congenial. Selway would go with the flow, Fisk knew he could count on him not to rock the boat. Karen Bettencourt, looking a little annoyed. Either by the beauty parlor comment, or by the prospect of a new detective, Fisk couldn't be sure. Maybe if he'd had a daughter he'd understand her better, but as was, he'd worked with few women cops over the years, so he just treated her like one of the guys. "Like I said, we're getting a new detective. Jim Dunbar, previously with the 77."

None of them said anything. They'd all known it was bound to happen, and really, there wasn't much to say. The 77 wouldn't take him back, despite exemplary behavior at that bank robbery. A conflict of interests, they thought, to let him come back to work with all his old colleagues, his old partner. Best to get him out there with some new blood.

"Boss?" Russo asked, then waited for Fisk to motion he was allowed to speak. "This guy… is he really going to be going out there with us? Arresting people? Searching crime scenes? _Looking_ for evidence?"

"I'm going to talk to him about that tomorrow. He's part of the squad, and as such, we treat each other with respect, right? And no matter what happens, it stays in this squad, got that?" Fisk didn't tell his detectives he had healthy reservations of his own. If anything happened… it would be on Fisk himself. He would just have to make sure nothing happened to any of his detectives.

They left him alone in his office and he stared out the window until it got dark. He should be heading home, but he couldn't stop thinking about tomorrow. He'd heard lots of things about Dunbar during the path to reinstatement, stories of what a great cop he was, how he deserved a second chance. How Dunbar wasn't one to just sit back and let things happen. Fisk would have to keep an eye on the guy. Tomorrow.

* * *

Christie Dunbar watched her husband across the apartment, looking from under her eyelashes. He'd been sitting on the couch, quiet, all evening. That wasn't like him, not lately. He'd been so enthusiastic about going back to work. There had been so many things that needed to get done.

Now tomorrow was almost upon them and everything had already been done and there was nothing left but to wait. Jim had spent months running around to prepare, and now—waiting. Jimmy had never been much of one for waiting. Her Jimmy always ran right out and did things. If she was sad, he ran out and bought flowers. He didn't dance around a problem and ask what was wrong. At work, she knew he'd been the same as at home: do first, think later.

The bank—she shuddered. He'd gotten it done, though. That was a memory she couldn't keep out of her head, even though she hadn't been there. It was just another day on the job—could have happened to anyone, he assured her over and over. She'd cried alone, when he wouldn't know, about him going back on the job. It was what he wanted; how could she not support that? It was all he lived for now.

Tomorrow. He'd leave the apartment early and head to his new precinct. Christie would be there for him when he left, but she planned to go into work after, even if she couldn't concentrate all day. She would need the distraction. Then, she'd already arranged it at work, she would come home early and make dinner to celebrate—or to comfort him.

She still had her reservations. She knew Jimmy. She could see how well he'd adjusted, but other times… She was sure he wasn't aware that she'd noticed anything… How he'd fumble picking something up. Or how he'd go to get something and his hand would clasp on empty air, like last night when he'd gone to the kitchen for his beer. He'd moved it while he helped her cook, absently, then went back and grabbed—nothing. Two inches back and he'd have been fine, but it had taken him a few minutes to find it, even leaving the kitchen to retrace his steps.

He wasn't ready, that's what Christie couldn't help thinking. She watched him sitting on the couch. Even from that distance she could see how tense he was. She knew it killed him, sitting at home with nothing to do. She knew all he wanted was to get back out there, but she was so afraid he was jumping the gun and going too soon. He'd adjusted so well, but she'd barely been able to get him out of the apartment to visit friends. He refused to go to parties with her for work. How was he going to get out there, meet new people, people he would have to work with, and do his job at the same time?

Christie didn't doubt he could do his job. He could do anything he put his mind to. She just wasn't sure he was ready to deal with all the people. Jimmy and his temper… It hurt to watch him frustrated when he couldn't do something right the first time. If anyone else saw, if they made a comment at the wrong time, could he let it go?

She wrung her hands around the dish towel and set the stove to simmer. Jimmy still hadn't moved. He had a full beer in front of him. He looked like he used to when he was working a difficult case out in his head. Conflicted.

She went over quietly, but his head tilted just enough she knew he'd heard her. She stood behind him and ran a hand down the back of his hair. "Are you ready?" she asked.

"Dinner?"

"Tomorrow."

* * *

Tomorrow. Christie asked about tomorrow.

"Yeah, of course." Her hand was playing with his hair so lightly it tickled and he pulled away. She made a noise, sounded hurt. He couldn't tell her he wasn't pulling away from her—just sat back again and let her play with his hair. He almost smiled, wondering why she refused to play with the dog like this. "Let's talk about something else." He grabbed her hand and pulled her around the side of the couch without getting up. She sat on the arm next to him.

"You don't want to talk about work?"

"It's all we've been talking about lately and it's finally here. I'm going back."

"Excited?"

He gave her a little smile. It didn't matter if he was excited—or if his stomach was twisted into twenty different knots. What mattered was that he was getting out of the apartment tomorrow and he was going in to a job he was familiar with and he was going to do it. He'd done his research. They were working on that serial homicide. The "Tongue Collector" as the media so eloquently nicknamed it. He'd followed everything and made a few inquiries with the few people from the force he still talked to. He hadn't gotten much, but he was excited to learn more. That much he couldn't wait for, to get in there the next morning and find out all the nitty-gritty details. He hated being on this side of the media, the side that waited for few details that were often wrong and misleading.

Something moved across the apartment and Jim turned his head toward the TV. It took a second—Hank. He hadn't had the dog very long, wasn't used to having pets, strange noises in the night. He'd been so busy, thinking about the next day, for a minute he'd forgotten about the guide dog.

"I should take Hank out," he said, extracting himself from Christie's arm and standing. Hank ran over, his tail wagging so fast Jim could feel the air moving. Hank shook excitedly and Jim could smell the dog shampoo from the earlier bath—they were both going to look their best tomorrow. "You wanna come?" he asked his wife.

"I'll finish dinner," she said, already halfway across the apartment.

Jim easily clipped the harness onto his dog. Hank yawned in his face, probably having just woken from a nap. "You better be well-rested tomorrow," he told the German Shepherd. He slipped into his coat and stood up, the harness sliding into his hand just like it would tomorrow.

* * *

Terry Jansen stared out the window of his apartment. Behind him he could hear his wife putting their son to bed. Out front he could see people hustling through the dark, bushes moving in the wind, clouds covering the moon. But really, he couldn't see anything. A beer lay on the window sill in front of him, untouched for the past hour. He'd barely heard Annie tell him it was time to get Mickey ready for bed.

The past year he'd gone through the motions. Being a husband and a father. Occasionally he'd made a phone call. He was sure if they could have just talked…

He'd gotten a new partner at work.

He'd seen a counselor to make sure he wasn't messed up over the bank robbery and what happened to his old partner. He'd been pretty proud of his stoicism at the time, but now he wondered, wanted to go back, talk.

He needed to talk to Jimmy. He'd never said anything to the shrink because he'd been sure if he could just talk to Jimmy…

It was all over the news. Detective James Dunbar was going back to work, about a year after a near-fatal gunshot wound had taken his sight and left him a hero.

Hero. Terry pushed a breath out his nose at the thought, his lips pressed tight. A hero. The great Jimmy Dunbar, his old friend, Mickey's godfather. Jimmy was a great guy, but was he really a hero? If so, what did that make Terry? He'd always been the junior partner. Everyone gravitated toward Jim. Then the bank, he'd screwed it up.

He felt like throwing up. That was the new reaction his body gave to thoughts of Jimmy Dunbar.

Terry hadn't seen him since he was hurt.

"Terry, hon?"

He ignored her.

He'd tried to reconcile an image of Jimmy, blind, with the man he'd known for three years, but it never worked out. To him, Jimmy would never be blind.

And tomorrow?

* * *

Jim sat out in the park with Hank at his feet. He pictured the park around him as he listened to people hurrying by, going home from work. He'd be at work soon enough. He smiled. He'd be back at work. It was about damn time, too. He was the type of guy who would have gone back the day after the shooting, if—

He scratched Hank's head to clear his own. Thoughts of the bank robbery plagued him enough when he wasn't conscious; he didn't need them now. Now was a time to rejoice, to get back home to his wife and the warm apartment. He wasn't going to think about the past year, or the shooting, or Terry, or—

Jim's face screwed up into a grimace. He was _not_ going to think of Terry, not now, not ever.

Yet every time he opened his eyes, what did he see? Nothing, superimposed with an image of his former partner, crouched behind a building, looking scared shitless. Gun in hand.

Terry didn't need a gun. It hadn't done him any good. And this past year, who'd been at work? Terry. Terry, solving cases. Jim had refused any information on the man, but he still knew Terry was back on the job. A few counseling sessions, that was all it had taken. Not even a rep about freezing. Jim wondered if anyone had the same reservations he did, about Terry's ability to do his job.

He forced his thoughts to the leaves in the trees and the footsteps, shoes walking around the park, voices hovering nearby, the smell of hot dogs as the wind whipped over.

Jim wondered who his new partner was going to be and if he'd be able to trust him.

He stood up. He wouldn't find out tonight. But tomorrow, first thing, he'd know tomorrow. Everything would be back to normal, tomorrow.

* * *

Marty Russo laughed as he walked up the street toward his apartment. The clouds were whipping by overhead and his hair was a mess. He needed a haircut, as his wife kept reminding him. He reminded her he was busy. And he'd be even busier now. He shook his head, a stupid grin on his face. A blind cop, didn't that beat all?

Marty climbed the stairs, his smile fading. What were they going to do with the guy, baby-sit? How safe was that, anyway? Yeah, it was a great joke and all, but you never carried on with a joke. Not when lives were on the line. What was that guy thinking?

He couldn't go in the apartment, not yet. It was bedtime, time to chase the kid around the house, but Marty needed a minute to think. He'd been so caught up in the absurd notion, he hadn't really thought it through all the way. Marty sat on the top stair, his hands clasped like he was in school, the good little boy.

While the rumors floated around, they'd all thought about it then. They'd been sure no blind cop would ever be assigned to any precinct, not in a capacity like this, not going out on the street like a real cop.

Thunder shook the building and Marty clenched his hands tighter. There came a point where the joke wasn't funny anymore.

Not that it mattered what he thought. He was just a detective. He didn't work for the mayor. He couldn't get a lawyer and go after this guy, fight his reinstatement. It was too late to play fair.

The electricity went out and Marty blinked. There were no windows in the stairwell. The door would be right behind him, all he had to do was stand up and walk out onto his floor; he was lucky he'd stopped here and not just randomly on the stairs. He should get up and go down the hall and find his door—it would be easy because his kid was scared of the dark and would probably be screaming—and help his wife and go to bed and get up tomorrow morning and go to work when it was nice and sunny. His wife and kid would probably still be sleeping when he left.

He slammed the side of his fist into the concrete block of the stairwell. Marty just sat there.

His thoughts were angry, _Tomorrow_.

* * *

Karen Bettancourt rolled her eyes to herself as she looked over the case files. She was having trouble concentrating, which was unusual. She couldn't afford that now, not with five dead women. Karen was the youngest detective in the squad and the only woman, so she dealt with her share of prejudice from her male co-workers, but they could never say she hadn't earned her spot.

Five dead women, all naked and bound, tongues cut out. But all she could see in her head was the black and white head shot from the newspaper.

They needed to finish this case as quickly as possible because they were about to become baby-sitters to a guy who obviously didn't understand what a liability he was going to be.

Karen tapped a pencil on her desk to try to get back on track. She knew more about Detective Dunbar than the guys, things she wished she didn't know, things that were not going to help them come together as a squad—if it was possible for them to come together.

Her phone rang. "Bettancourt."

"I just heard," the voice of her old friend, Anne Donnelly said. "He's coming tomorrow."

Karen sighed. "You want me to send your love?"

"I want you to watch yourself. It'll start with some small, harmless comment—"

"Anne, I gotta go." Karen hung up. That was the last thing she needed to complicate her life. She shook her head and leaned closer to her computer. She'd work late, and the next day she'd keep her head down. With any luck Dunbar wouldn't even notice her.

Five prostitutes dead. Young, pretty girls. If they didn't find the guy soon they were talking—behind closed doors, so Karen shouldn't have know, but gossip travels, even in the police department—about maybe doing some undercover work to root the guy out. Karen had never been undercover, and working as a prostitute wasn't her ideal dream, but she knew, if the boss could trust her enough to recommend her for the job… She could only hope. That would be her first step up.

If they didn't catch the guy tomorrow, or maybe the next day, that's what she'd heard and she could only hope.

She sighed. If the new guy didn't screw it up. If he wasn't a huge distraction. There was a chance, she knew, that if he was incompetent enough, the case would just get reassigned. They needed to solve the case before anyone made a decision about Dunbar's competency. But it was almost too late. Karen glanced at the clock—11:59pm. He'd be there tomorrow.

* * *

Christie slept.

Jim wouldn't. He swallowed hard.

He had to psych himself up.

He was good enough he could do his job blindfolded.

He ran his hand over her hair.

Used to be he'd sit here and watch her sleep. Like an angel. Nestled snug in his bed.

He was lucky.

He'd lived.

Christie'd stayed with him, even though he'd tried his hardest to screw that up.

He'd been lucky.

He was going back to work.

He fingered one of her curls, a soft wave of hair.

She'd forgiven him, forgotten all about that.

He really was lucky.

Terry hadn't called in a long time. He'd finally taken the hint.

Rain pattered the window.

Jim closed his eyes and tried to imagine the rain, each individual drop, streetlights reflecting off of and inside the drops, each one a light of its own.

He slept. He'd need his strength, tomorrow.

* * *

Hank slept well that night. His bed was soft, the apartment warm. His stomach was full. He didn't think a thing about tomorrow.

* * *

Tom Selway stretched his arms over his head, pulling back first one shoulder, then the other. Lightning flashed outside the window of his apartment and his girlfriend lit a few candles, just in case. She turned the lights out and Tom smiled.

Just hours before he'd walked out of the boss's office and Marty had kicked a trash can down the aisle between the desks, muttering something about a blind cop. Then Marty'd looked up and Tom had caught his eye. A moment had passed, just looking between them, then they'd both laughed really hard. A blind cop.

Tom leaned back on the couch, slinging his arm across the back so Nikki could settle into her spot. She was still busy, turning off the hall light so the only light came from the tiny flames she'd lit. She looked over and he puckered up, kissing the air between them.

Nikki laughed and wiggled her rear at him. "No dinner?"

"Dessert first," he said.

She pushed the coffee table closer to the couch anyway and started dishing out Chinese food onto plates. "You're going to have a famous guy in the department soon, huh?"

"Yeah, tomorrow."

"It's all over the news. I'd hate that, having cameras following some guy into work. All because he's blind."

Tom leaned across the couch to her, pulling her up. She'd rather the cameras were following her, he knew and smiled. "All because he shot some guy at a bank robbery," he corrected her.

"That was a long time ago. The cameras should be following you, all this work you guys have been doing on that serial killer."

Tom shook his head and kissed her. "We're not even close to finishing that one."

"No?" She kissed him back. "But still—"

He dismissed it, shaking his head against her hair. "Doesn't matter. That's tomorrow."

* * *

Christie woke up. In a flash of lightning she saw two eyes staring at her across the room and she gasped, sitting up.

Jim didn't move.

The dog. Christie sighed and glared at him, then settled back, pulling the covers up around her shoulders. Jimmy was sleeping more soundly than he had in a long time. She pushed some hair away from his forehead, revealing a small scar at his temple.

How had he managed to just get back to his old life so quickly? Everything was so close to normal, she mused as she watched him sleeping. Just a little longer, a little more, and everything would be fine. He'd settle in at work, they'd start going out again.

The dog moved again and Christie sighed as it scratched under its collar. She jammed her eyes shut, like she was trying desperately to sleep.

She hoped not everything got back to normal. As much as she tried to forgive and forget, the forgetting part was hardest.

Nothing was normal. Jimmy'd changed before the shooting. Things hadn't been going well between them. They'd almost gotten divorced. How could she forget that? How could she forgive him for sleeping with some faceless girl?

Christie turned over in bed, yanking the covers closer to her. She glared at the wall, the patterns made by the light in the raindrops.

A little more normal and she wouldn't be able to handle that. If things started going in that direction again… Had he really changed? She sniffled. She guessed she'd find out tomorrow.

* * *

Sonny Famigletti stared at the rerun of the news, his mouth hanging open, a peanut dropping to the floor.

"Dunbar?" he said aloud.

He got off the couch and scooted over to the TV, sitting on the floor like a kid, watching the grainy image. That was definitely Dunbar.

Sonny laughed. He was going to be working at the 8th Precinct. Sonny'd need to stretch his field a little wider, but that'd be okay. He knew the area pretty well and he always liked meeting new people. Where Dunbar went, Sonny went. They had a good thing, back then. Sonny nodded. Yeah, he'd give Dunbar a little while to get settled, then they'd get reacquainted and Sonny'd be making extra dough on the side again.

The news crew showed a picture of Detective James Dunbar and his lovely wife Christie, who'd stood by him throughout the harrowing ordeal.

"Lucky bastard," Sonny said. He picked the peanut off the floor and popped it into his mouth.

The news lady was finishing up her report, saying, "Detective Dunbar will get his second chance at life, tomorrow."

**END**

* * *

**

* * *

DELETED SCENES**

Detective James Dunbar, he'd worked hard for that title. He should have felt thrilled to have it back. But in reality, he felt more nervous than he'd thought he would.

Every time he thought ahead, all he could see in his head was before. He thought about the new precinct, where he'd only had a cursory exploration, not enough to be familiar with the layout. In his head he saw his old precinct superimposed, with desks and walls where he knew the new squad was open. He thought about the new detectives he'd be working with, and all he could see was the old detectives he'd worked with. He thought about his new partner—and that scared him.

He thought about going out into the field, and all he saw was the scene at the bank where he'd been shot, where his partner had frozen, where all hell had broken loose. Where the sun had been bright. Where he could look around and see buildings and cars. It wasn't a pleasant scene, filled with fear and blood. It was a scene he knew too well, by sight, by sound, by smell even. He'd never paid that much attention to smell before, but he knew what that day smelled like. Like fire and gasoline. And it had been so loud there, he was sure it was the silence of the hospital that had woken him up when it was all over.

Jim ran his hands over the leather of the couch, trying to ground himself. He knew the couch was red, but when he looked down, he couldn't see the color. He couldn't see his hands. Sometimes it felt like the world was missing. Other times it felt like he was missing the world.

One thing he could do was concentrate. Jim forced all those thoughts out of his mind and just ran over his route to work the next morning. He'd get on the subway at York, take the train, get off, walk down the sidewalk to work. Jim ran over every fact about the new precinct.

He was finally calming down. Going back to work tomorrow, that felt like it was normal now. He wouldn't think about the past because that's not who he was anymore. No, he was the guy sitting on the sofa who was going to go without regret and prove he was a competent detective tomorrow.

* * *

Jim made it back before the rain started. As soon as the wind gusted strong enough to lift his collar, he knew it was time to head back. He didn't mind the weather, good or bad. It was nice to just sit outside and enjoy the change of scene. But Christie didn't particularly like the smell of wet dog, or having her husband dripping on the floor. Why couldn't he use an umbrella like a normal person?

Jim hung his overcoat from the coat rack. Some instinct told him dinner had long been ready. It didn't smell as fresh. He couldn't hear the kitchen timer ticking away the seconds. He stopped at the counter and reached out, finding a single plate at his place. That was what Christie used to do when he missed dinner, just leave a plate for him there. He hoisted himself onto the bar stool. Hank settled at his feet.

Bath water was running in the other room, the door to the bedroom closed and muting the sound. Thunder, then rain pounding on the windows. Jim picked up the plate and carried it to his desk so he could hear the rain more clearly and imagine he was watching the lightning.

He picked at the food absently. He wasn't hungry. He doubted he'd sleep well and just wanted to get the first day over with.

The bath water stopped and he half-noticed that the television was on, the volume turned low. The ten o'clock news, it sounded like. A snarl on the freeway this evening. Weather bulletin. Police report no new evidence in the Tongue Collector case.

Tomorrow he might very well be on the ten o'clock news. Jim shivered as another round of thunder shook the windows. He'd managed to avoid the press most of the time, except when his lawyer insisted he speak with them. But tomorrow they all knew it was inevitable, his being such a high profile case.

Jim took dinner back to the coffee table and sat on the floor. Again, Hank followed, leaning close to the plate to sniff, but behaving himself and settling down.

The TV flicked off. Jim paused, momentarily confused. Thunder distantly grumbled and Jim sighed. He took his plate to the sink and pulled a flashlight out of the junk drawer that was now as organized as every other drawer in the house.

Hank followed Jim as he knocked on the bathroom door. "Christie?" He opened the door a crack and shone the light in cautiously.

"The power's already back on," she said.

"Oh." Jim shut the door before she could say anything else. Then he just stood there, facing the bathroom door. He'd have to be careful tomorrow. He couldn't do anything that would make them think of him as blind. Whatever he did, he'd have to pay attention. He couldn't mess up. All his senses would be tuned in and coordinated. Because tomorrow was the most important day of his life.

"Jimmy?" Christie finally called.

He walked away.

They would be looking for any excuse to make sure he didn't stay on the force, he knew that. He'd have to be the nice guy, easy-going, observant. He couldn't rock the boat or stand out in any way. Keep his head down and his nose clean. Because the first mistake could very well be the last. Reigning in his natural impulses, that would be his biggest problem tomorrow.


End file.
